


can we fall (one more time)

by void_fish



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: spoilers for the whole series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 11:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13270254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: Vaxil’dan is both art and magic, Shaun realises far too quickly.Shaun should really know better, but. He’s never been good at knowing what’s better for him.





	can we fall (one more time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouronforeplay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouronforeplay/gifts).



> this is for lizzy, who is great.
> 
> lizzy asked for wingfic. this is-- not really that, so there is probably wingfic to write in my future. for now, enjoy this!
> 
> thanks to lil for continuing her role as goat beta

Shaun’s mama taught him that magic is an art. 

Magic, like painting, sculpture, music, comes from the heart, and the heart is just a muscle. It can be trained. 

When Shaun is seven years old, his mama buys him a set of oil paints, all dark, gemstone colours, and tells him to make them into magic. 

He paints with his fingers at first; his mama couldn’t spare the few extra copper for a brush, but he doesn’t care. He paints clumsy nebulas, mountains, oceans, sunsets. Beautiful things emerging out of dark greens and reds and purples. 

When he casts his first spell, it comes from hands stained with midnight blue, and it shimmers, coalesces into something like a painting, before the colour dissipates. 

“Magic is art,” his mama says from behind him. “Art is magic. The two are often connected, don’t forget that.”

-

Vaxil’dan is both art and magic, Shaun realises far too quickly. 

Shaun should really know better, but. He’s never been good at knowing what’s better for him.

-

Vaxil’dan’s skin is a canvas of scars and ink.

It’s summer in Emon the first time they walk together. Vaxil’dan has shed his heavy armour for a loose shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, collar open so Shaun can see his collarbones, sharp and pale. The material is thin enough to show a brand on his shoulder blade, stark and black. Shaun would ask him about it if he thought Vaxil’dan would answer.

When Vaxil’dan takes the arm Shaun offers, tucking his fingers around the crook of Shaun’s elbow, he sees the scar tissue on his knuckles, the torn skin around his cuticles. Shaun covers them with his own free hand, patting gently, and they walk together, heads bowed, talking about nothing in particular.

Vaxil’dan buys him a pastry, filled with a sweet, fruit cream, dusted with sugar. When he eats his own, he gets a smear of cocoa on his cheek that Shaun longs to kiss away. The beads in his hair clatter together gently when he laughs and rubs it off with his thumb, giving Shaun a guilty smile.

-

Shaun makes paint the exact shade of Vaxil’dan’s skin, cream with the faintest hint of rose, and black paint darker than raven wings.

He tells Sherri that he’s drawing up commissions for pieces of armour, helmets and breastplates and all manner of things, but he sits in his office and he draws Vaxil’dan in charcoal, in ink, in the strong, dark coffee he gets from home.

He passes his hand over the parchment after and Vaxil’dan’s eyes flicker, just for a second, almost like the real one.

-

Vaxil’dan is in love with someone else.

He is very kind, and kisses Shaun goodbye very gently.

It doesn’t break Shaun’s heart any less.

-

Dragons come to Emon.

Shaun’s art is lost, but he keeps his life, only barely.

He remembers flame, and he remembers pain, and then he’s opening his eyes to see Vaxil’dan, ash-smudged and terrified and still so beautiful. He’s holding Shaun’s hand tight. Shaun can see the edges of new art on his wrist when he looks down. His other hand is on Shaun’s jaw, thumb sweeping small circles. His eyes are filled with tears, one hits Shaun in the nose as it falls.

There’s a warmth in his chest, and as he looks, Pike Trickfoot is there, gauntleted hand on his sternum, eyes closed, face serene.

Another tear, this one on his forehead. It mingles with the ash and rolls over his temple, slow. He reaches up with his free hand and thumbs at Vaxil’dan’s cheekbone, the one he’s drawn so many times.

Vaxil’dan shudders.

No one speaks.

-

Shaun survives. The city survives. They can both rebuild.

For now though, there is Whitestone. There is a castle of pale rock and endless hallways to wander, and there is sunlight, and there is Vaxil’dan.

Shaun spends a lot of his time outside. The castle has wonderful, extensive gardens, and he gets parchment and ink from his room and sits cross-legged by a flowerbed, drawing the same rose a hundred times over.

‘I didn’t know you could draw,’ Vaxil’dan says from behind him. The sun is just starting to set. The shadows are exquisite.

Vaxil’dan looks-- tired. Haunted. Shaun’s gaze sweeps over the dark circles under his eyes.

‘Who do you think designed the armour at Gilmore’s Glorious Goods?’ Shaun asks, light. He adds another petal.

‘I mean, I didn’t know you could draw-- other things,’ Vaxil’dan corrects. His hair is falling out of the braids. ‘Can I sit?’

Shaun nods, and he sits down on the grass, knees to his chest. He rests his chin on his folded arms and stares at the roses.

On instinct, Shaun picks up his quill. He draws the bridge of Vaxil’dan’s nose, the troubled slash of his lips, and gets half his brow done before he frowns, blinks, turns to look at Shaun. ‘Are you drawing me?’

Shaun finishes his brow before answering. Vaxil’dan’s frown stares out of the parchment at him.

‘Would you rather I not?’ he asks, resting his quill in the inkpot.

Vaxil’dan pauses, and turns back to the flowers. Shaun had forgotten how still he could be. Like if you look away for a second he’ll just fade into the background. Shaun waits for a moment before picking up his quill.

He draws quickly and quietly. Vaxil’dan moves only to breathe, and then only barely. His beaded braid hangs over his shoulder, quietly colourful; it reminds Shaun of home, and makes him wish he had his paints, all in one fell swoop. His chest aches, but he can’t be sure if that’s the still healing wounds, or the homesickness.

He’s almost finished the sketch when Vaxil’dan speaks.

‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,’ he says, still looking out at the roses.

Shaun rather gets the feeling that he’s not supposed to answer. He draws a collarbone and waits.

‘My home is destroyed,’ Vaxil’dan says. ‘Emon belongs to an enemy none of us can hope to defeat. I don’t know what to _do_ , Shaun.’

Shaun finishes the sketch. He blows gently to dry the ink, and then rolls it up, ties it with a ribbon from his pocket. He leaves it next to Vaxil’dan’s hip. ‘Whatever any of us can do,’ he says, climbing to his feet. ‘Persevere, Vaxil’dan.’

-

Someone is knocking on Shaun’s door. One, two, three, and then silence.

Shaun isn’t sleeping, though it’s far into the early hours of the morning.

The ghost of Vaxil’dan is standing in the hallway when he opens the door, grey and glassy eyed.

‘Please,’ Vaxil’dan says, like he’s praying. ‘Please, Shaun. I-- I don’t want to be alone tonight.’

Now is not the time to remind Vaxil’dan that he is in love with someone else. Shaun lets the door close quietly behind them.

Vaxil’dan blinks in the candlelight. ‘I thought you’d be sleeping,’ he says. ‘I thought-- well, I thought a lot of things, I think.’

He steps over to the desk, where parchment is spread out. With Vox Machina away, Shaun had finally had time to make new paints. Just a few colours, but enough to paint the woods he can see out of his window. The sun is just starting to rise, and the light is pink and pale orange.

Vaxil’dan dips his finger into the black paint. It drips onto scrap parchment that’s drifted to the floor before he rubs it off on his armour. New armour, Shaun notices. There are black feathers laced into the collar.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s-- tonight was-- sorry.’ Shaun waits. He’s long since learned that the best way to talk to Vaxil’dan is to let him talk to himself.

‘I was going to Keyleth’s room,’ he says. ‘I ended up here instead, though.’

‘You’re always welcome here,’ Shaun says, carefully. Vaxil’dan is picking at the drying paint lodged in his nail.

‘I still have that sketch you did of me,’ Vaxil’dan says. ‘I opened it after you left, and--’

Shaun waits.

‘You love me,’ Vaxil’dan says, quietly.

‘I don’t think that’s news to either of us, my dear,’ Shaun says.

‘I think I might love you, too,’ Vaxil’dan admits.

Shaun takes a careful breath. He waits.

‘My sister died tonight,’ Vaxil’dan says. ‘I-- we brought her back, but. She _died_ , Shaun.’ 

He’s standing by the window, staring out at the sunrise.

Shaun reaches out carefully, like he would to a wild animal. His hand touches Vaxil’dan’s shoulder and he flinches, but stays. Shaun squeezes. He’s here. He’s not going anywhere.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and Vaxil’dan lets out a shaky breath that might be a laugh.

Shaun makes a calculated risk. He pulls on Vaxil’dan’s shoulder until he turns, curls into Shaun’s chest. He’s shaking, from exhaustion, or worse. His breath is hot on Shaun’s shoulder.

‘Can I stay here tonight?’ Vaxil’dan asks. ‘I know I have already asked so much of you, after-- everything.’

Shaun should say no. He should know _better_ , but when he nods, silent, and Vaxil’dan’s lips rise to meet his, Shaun doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say no.

-

Vaxil’dan is sleeping, finally.

His back is bare and pale among Shaun’s sheets, navy and indigo. The handprint scar on his shoulder blade shines in the dawn light.

If Shaun half-closes his eyes and draws upon the magic in his blood, he can see two large, black wings, half folded, sprouting out of Vaxil’dan’s skin like they have always been there. They curve around him, protecting him.

Shaun sits at his desk and draws.

-

‘They grow out of the armour,’ Vaxil’dan tells him.

It has been a season since they last saw each other. A season since they last lay together.

It’s almost winter, and they’re walking the grounds together.

‘Are you sure?’ Shaun asks.

‘No,’ Vaxil’dan admits, only half-joking. ‘Never.’

Shaun pauses.

‘Wings?’ he asks.

‘Wings,’ Vaxil’dan says. ‘Like a raven.’

Shaun thinks about the ghost of magic he saw on Vaxil’dan’s back the last time they were together, and wonders.

‘Do you want to see them?’ Vaxil’dan asks, quiet.

Shaun wants to kiss him, so he does. Vaxil’dan tastes of the cold, but he smiles against Shaun’s lips, bright as ever.

‘Come,’ Shaun says. ‘I have missed you too much to trample through a snowdrift, when inside there are fires and silk sheets and wine.’

Vaxil’dan laughs, and allows himself to be swept away.

-

Vaxil’dan is always beautiful, Shaun thinks, but he’s most beautiful in bed, with the sheets tangled in his legs, the candlelight throwing his face into sharp contrast; the lines of his brow, his nose.

Shaun kisses the hollow of his chest, kisses every single visible rib, the jut of his hipbone, every knob of his spine as it arches up in pleasure.

His shoulder blades stick out like wingtips already. It’s easy to imagine the scarring that Shaun knows is there, two neat lines where his wings spring from, fully formed and just as beautiful as the rest of him. He traces them with his lips and Vaxil’dan shivers.

He drops one last kiss on the nape of his neck as he slides into him, and Vaxil’dan bends like a bowstring under him.

-

Shaun wakes up with a blanket of raven feathers.

Vaxil’dan is sprawled out next to him; for someone so slight, it always amazes Shaun how much space he takes up in a bed. (In a room, in a _life_.)

The wings are enormous, spreading across the entire room, hot and heavy and thick. Shaun works an arm free and touches the wing joint carefully. Vaxil’dan makes a noise, soft and content, and the wing flexes under Shaun’s fingers. He traces it all the way to where it joins Vaxil’dan’s shoulder; the join is seamless. Like the wings are supposed to be there, have never not been there.

‘Tickles,’ Vaxil’dan murmurs, making Shaun jump.

‘I thought you were sleeping,’ he says.

‘I was,’ Vaxil’dan says. ‘Then you started tickling me.’

Shaun rolls over, kisses the cap of his shoulder in apology. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he whispers, punctuates it with another kiss.

The second time Shaun wakes up, the wings are gone.

So is Vaxil’dan.

-

‘Is that really what I look like?’ Vaxil’dan asks from behind Shaun.

Shaun jumps, spilling paint across the parchment. He spells it clean as quickly as he can, but he still pinches Vaxil’dan’s hip when he turns to face him.

Vaxil’dan isn’t even looking at him. His eyes are fixed on the painting, on the long pale lines of his body.

Shaun has been collecting sketches, you see. While Vaxil’dan sleeps, when he sleeps, Shaun draws. They’re scattered across his desk like memories.

Because Shaun knows something Vaxil’dan doesn’t, and that is the fact that Vaxil’dan is dying. Shaun can _feel_ it every time he touches him, can feel the rot in his chest cavity.

Every time he leaves with Vox Machina, kills another of the conclave, he comes back a little less whole. There’s a bruise forming over his heart that Shaun can only see out of the corner of his eye.

‘Sometimes,’ Shaun says, finally answering the question. ‘To me, anyway.’

Vaxil’dan hums, tilts his head.

Shaun turns back to his painting, picks up his brush.

When he turns back, Vaxil’dan is gone.

-

Vox Machina save Tal’dorei because it’s what they do.

Emon is rebuilding, Westruun is rebuilding. Gilmore’s Glorious Goods is back in business.

Vox Machina march into town like a funeral procession, and Shaun knows.

The painting of Vaxil’dan, finally finished, hangs in his quarters, wings spread wide.


End file.
